It's a Wonderful Game of Chess
by wtchcool
Summary: It's Christmas Eve. Peter's been drinking. Orwell has posted yet another hostile post, Jamie is still AWOL, the Cape rebuffs him at every turn. In short, Fleming is alone for the holiday, save Chess and one unexpected visitor. Welcome to "It's a Wonderful Life," The Cape style. Contains Pence.
1. Chapter 1: Lonely Heart

"It's A Wonderful Game of Chess"

By Wtchcool

Disclaimer: If I owned "The Cape," there'd be no question of which Fleming Vince should wind up with. If I owned "It's a Wonderful Life," that movie would be shorter, so very much shorter.

_Chapter One: Lonely Heart_

"I thought you were done drinking for the night."

Peter Fleming sat in front of his computer screen, a glass in his hand. He spared a glance for the semi-naked woman in his penthouse. Rebecca, he thought her name was. She'd been at the ARK Corporation party earlier in the evening and had managed to steer him away from the bar and back to his bedroom. But sex, like the alcohol, only distracted him for so long.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Rebecca asked, as she approached the desk. The computer monitor showed the latest post to Orwell's blog: "_NEW EVIDENCE LINKS FLEMING TO CHIEF VOYT'S MURDER_."

"Is that what's bothering you?" the blonde asked. "Surely there's no evidence that you can't explain away," _or make disappear_, she finished silently.

"It's just rubbish," Fleming mumbled, raising the glass to his lips. He wasn't afraid that the mysterious blogger would be able to pin anything on him. Still… the blogger was a pain in the arse. And the Cape just had to be on Orwell's side.

The vigilante had been acting more hostile to him lately. The Cape refused to acknowledge that there was anything between them and had seemed disgusted by Peter's insinuations that they could be more than archenemies. (Why, Peter didn't know. He was certain that the Cape was attracted to him. It was one of the few points on which he and Chess agreed.) Peter couldn't help aching for the hero, even though he found him infuriating.

Tonight was Christmas Eve. Was he spending it with family? No. His daughter, Jamie Fleming, could be anywhere. He hadn't heard a word from her in years, unless that had been her on the Monte Carlo spewing accusations at him. He suspected it probably was, and hated Scales for having distracted him from pursuing the young woman. Raoul bloody well deserved being set up after that.

His wife, Danielle, had been gone for more than a decade now. And it was entirely his fault—

_No, it wasn't, Peter. Now put the glass down, end the pity party and go back to bed!_

She would still be alive if it wasn't for him, though, Peter insisted mentally.

_Goddamn it! You didn't kill her. I killed the bastards that did. Stop playing martyr!_ Chess raged.

What did Chess know? Stupid voice in his head, always contradicting him, belittling him, telling him to murder people…like Voyt.

He'd had Voyt killed to suit his purposes. Where did that get him? More accusations from his enemies, a new enemy in the smuggler, and the loss of a valued—

-_If you say friend, Peter, you're full of it. You were never friends_.

-Confidante, then. There weren't many people, even among his employees, that he could unburden himself to. He had recently learned that talking to his psychiatrist had been a mistake and had resorted to Chess' preferred methods for rectifying that error.

And so here he was. He'd been at the party, surrounded by people, and yet faced with the prospect of spending the holiday alone, no family, no friends, and no lover. Well, Rebecca had at least taken care of the latter.

"Peter, forget Orwell for a while. I hate to see you so upset. Please, come back to bed."

"Why? When I wake up, will anything have changed? I'll still be alone, persecuted by this wretch with a vendetta—"

"Peter…"

"I'm sorry. The difference is that in the morning I'll wake up with a splitting headache courtesy of drinking too much."

"You're not alone. I'm here."

"Don't. Don't pretend that this is anything more than a one-night stand. I don't know you; don't even know your last name…"

"It's Deveraux," she said softly. "Let me cheer you up. I don't have to look like this, you know. I can shape shift. I can be anyone—"

_Yes! Let me take over, Peter._

"Shut up!" Peter put his hands over his head, which was already starting to throb. "Both of you—quit trying to placate me! You can't change the fact that sooner or later, everyone finds me repulsive and leaves. Maybe he's right." It was not quite clear whether he was referring to the blogger or the vigilante. "Maybe I am a monster and I deserve to be ostracized. The city would be better off without me. Heck, the world would."

"Peter, that's not true!"

"Isn't it? I've corrupted the whole of Palm City. I've bought everyone that stood in my way and when there was someone I couldn't buy, I had him killed." This time it was the face, not of Voyt, but of the late Vincent Faraday that swam in his mind. He'd hardly known the man, but the fact that the cop was incorruptible had been enough to have him condemned. What the hell was the matter with him? It was his fault Dana Faraday was a grieving widow. Thanks to him, Faraday's son would have to grow up without a father. What kind of person could inflict that kind of pain so casually?

"I wish I was never born."

_Why did you say that?_ Chess demanded.

Rebecca's face hardened.

"You shouldn't have said that, Peter." The person transformed before his eyes, until he was no longer looking at the woman he'd so recently shagged, but a man that looked vaguely familiar.

"You weren't kidding about being a shape shifter. You said your name was Deveraux?" Peter repeated.

"André Deveraux, shape shifter, immortal and magician." As he spoke, he raised his arms. White light emanated from his body, filling Peter's vision until he couldn't make out his surroundings and had to close his eyes. When he was able to reopen them, he saw that they were no longer in the penthouse. They had somehow been transported to a street in Palm City.

"And up to a few moments ago," Deveraux continued, "ancestor of one Peter Fleming."

**Author's Note: Chapter title from Slow Club's "Christmas T.V." (Yes, I do know it's too early for Christmas. But the Quiver plot bunnies are somewhat hard to come by when Quentin isn't in the episode.)**

**For those of you not familiar with Deveraux's backstory, as created by IronAmerica, the character took the form of Rebecca in "Dark Relic" opposite James Frain's character, Sir Gregory. For those of you who are familiar with it, I am modifying it somewhat. In this version, the competition did not start with Deveraux and Max because Max is not immortal. Therefore it started with Max's ancestor and was passed down from generation to generation, although the competition will not figure in this story.**

**Again, I ask you to show your support for The Cape by joining me in boycotting NBC. **

**-Suit Up. Fight Back. **


	2. Chapter 2: Still Not Dead

_Chapter Two: Still Not Dead_

Peter assessed the situation. He was standing, in the middle of a street, in the middle of the night, where moments before he'd been seated in his penthouse in ARK Tower. He was thankful that he at least had on a robe over the pajamas he'd thrown on when he'd snuck out of bed earlier. The headache that had been assaulting him had vanished.

"So, what exactly is the extent of your powers?" Fleming asked. "You shape shift, you cure headaches…"

"Your headache's gone because you haven't been born," Deveraux interrupted. "You can't very well be hung-over if you don't exist."

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course I exist!"

"Not here you don't. You wished you were never born. In this world, you weren't."

Deveraux didn't take any pleasure in granting his descendant's wish, but he felt that it was for Peter's own good. He'd tried to distract the younger man from his troubles, to no avail. If he wanted Peter to stop blaming himself for the state Palm City was in, he'd have to show him how much worse off things could be.

Peter groped in the pockets of his robe. It was probably fruitless; he must have left his wallet on the bedside table… Huh. His fingers closed on his wallet, though he didn't remember grabbing it.

"If I wasn't born," he said, as he withdrew the wallet from his pocket, "then explain…" He trailed off. His credit cards were missing, although he supposed Deveraux might have ripped him off. But his driver's license was missing, too, and why would anyone swipe that, but leave the cash inside?

"Your I.D. is gone because you don't exist," André explained.

"Just take me back to the Tower," Peter hissed, infuriated. He couldn't even see the skyscraper from here, which somehow struck him as wrong. Maybe he should just hail a cab already…

"I _can't_. Don't you get it? You weren't born. No Peter Fleming means no ARK Corporation, which means no ARK Tower!"

"You're joking. Or you're mental."

_Peter_, Chess spoke up. _I think he's telling the truth. Take a closer look around. ARK Tower should have been right across the street from us. _

Peter stared. There was no doubt about it. He could make out other landmarks, but ARK Tower had simply ceased to exist, leaving (not a gaping hole, which he would've expected, but rather) a much shorter, less impressive building in its place.

"You weren't around to have the building commissioned for the company," Deveraux was explaining. "Heck, the company wasn't around. You were the one that had it incorporated. It was your brainchild. Without you, it doesn't exist."

_Peter, get—him—to undo what he did. Or I am going to kill you. You arse! If you weren't born, that means I wasn't, either!_

Chess had thrived off of every news report detailing his gruesome crimes and speculating as to who he was. He would no doubt have been quite impossible to live with after his faux death in the explosion, when the media attention had gradually begun to fade away. Instead, he'd stopped talking to Peter altogether for a while, probably sulking.

_I wasn't sulking! _

If Fleming didn't know better, he'd think the sociopathic alternate personality was having a panic attack.

_I'll show you a panic attack! Everything I've done—down the drain. No one fears the name Chess… or the name Peter Fleming, either. Don't tell me that doesn't gall you._

It was a bit too much to wrap his head around, the thought that all of his accomplishments and his reputation had just been erased. He turned to the shape shifter.

"So you're saying that I don't own Palm City. Then who does?"

"Well, the city isn't owned by any _one_ person. It's carved up into different—"

"Who has the largest piece of it, then? Who would be considered the most territorial?"

Deveraux waved a hand. Thankfully, Peter wasn't blinded by light this time, but he must've blinked because one second they were standing where ARK Tower should have been and the next he was in a warehouse down by the docks, in front of a certain deformed smuggler. Peter didn't know where his companion was, but at the moment, he didn't care.

"Raoul, the last time I saw you, you were being arrested," Peter stated, as Scales reflexively pulled a gun on him.

"Odd; I don' remember ever sharin' a cell wit' someone who could teleport. Or were you a copper?"

"You don't remember me? Peter Fleming—I'm the reason you were arrested for killing Voyt."

_Notice how he's not in prison now, Peter?_

"Killin' Voyt? What's this, then? Who said he was dead? VOYT!" Scales called.

Peter turned around and then he felt the blood drain from his face. Marty Voyt, his former Chief of Police, the man whose funeral he'd not only attended, but paid for, was walking towards him.

_Since you need someone to spell it out for you_, _without us, no one hired Raoul for the assassination. Hence, Voyt is alive and Raoul is a free-man_, Chess supplied. _Also, it appears Voyt is working for Scales here._

Marty was wearing his uniform, but it was for the Palm City Police Department, not ARK Corporation. So Palm City's law enforcement was never privatized.

But evidently it was corrupted.

"Yes, Mr. Raoul?" Marty asked.

"This nutter's under the impression I had you done away with. D' you recognize 'im?"

"No, sir; I've never seen him before in my life."

"Voyt, it's me! Your boss—I hired you, I promoted you. I threatened your family a number of times, but surely we can put that behind us."

"No one's allowed to threaten my employees' families," Scales hissed.

"He didn't. I think I'd remember," Marty assured him. "Do you want me to escort him out?"

"I'm sure I can find my own way out," Fleming interjected.

Scales, who had put away the gun when he'd decided the stranger was harmless, shook his head.

"He's not worth yer time. Where are we on dealin' with the Lich?" he asked, paying no more attention to Peter. Apparently he assumed that Peter was already heading for the exit.

"I got in touch with Tarot as you requested," Marty reported. "They've sent an assassin to do the job."

"Which one they send?" Scales asked.

"Justice," Voyt replied.

"Justice," Scales repeated. "That'd be…"

"Rosethorne," Marty answered.

Peter, who had decided to head towards the exit, where he'd finally spotted Deveraux standing, stopped cold. He turned back to the two men.

"I'm sorry, did you say Rosethorne?" the billionaire asked.

"I did," Marty replied.

"Are you still 'ere?" Scales demanded. If the intruder had had half a brain, he would've left. On the other hand, if he'd had half a brain, he wouldn't have burst in in the first place…

"What's the assassin's first name?" Peter asked Voyt.

"Danielle, I believe. Do you know her?"

"I thought I did."

"Used Tarot before, have you?" Scales asked.

"Yes," Peter replied absently, though that wasn't how he had recognized the name. "Must be a funny coincidence; you see, Rosethorne was my wife's maiden name."

**Author's Note: Voilà, Scales! He might not be appearing again in the fic, but I wanted to make sure I got him in there. I seem to recall someone being a fan of Scales…**

**Are you still with me folks? There's more angst to come. **

**This chapter's name comes from Skye Sweetnam's "Cartoon."**

**I want to thank meridian-rose, IronAmerica, and Orwell for reviewing!**


	3. Chapter 3: What Might Go Wrong

_Chapter Three: What Might Go Wrong_

Deveraux guided Peter along the waterfront. The shape shifter was afraid his descendant had gone into shock. He hadn't said a word since they had left Scales' warehouse behind.

"Peter? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

"What? Yes; yes, I'm fine. Take me to see Danielle," Peter commanded.

"That might not be a good idea. Remember, she doesn't know you from a hole in the ground—"

_Is that a bad thing? _Chess asked. _You'd have a blank slate…_

"I haven't seen my wife in nearly two decades. Take me to her, _now_!"

Deveraux transported Peter directly into the basement of the Lich's lair. Fleming recognized her at once.

She had aged well since he last saw her, though there were lines in her face that hadn't been there before. She wore her black hair shorter than he remembered. He thought she looked somewhat taller, but perhaps that was the height of her shoes or the way she held herself. He couldn't remember her ever wearing so much black and could hardly believe how thin she was. Not that she looked anorexic, but his wife hadn't managed to lose all of the weight she'd put on during the pregnancy.

Right now, she was interrogating a brunette. She didn't seem to be getting the results she wanted.

"This is the last time I ask: Where is he?" Justice demanded.

"Forget it. You can't have him!" the older woman cried.

"Loyal to the end, I see. Don't worry. I'll make sure he joins you soon."

Danielle's dark eyes gleamed menacingly as she rammed her sword clean through Netta Stilton's torso. The assassin pulled the blade back, and Conrad Chandler's former nurse crumpled to the floor. _Served Stilton right for getting in the way_, Rosethorne thought. She turned at the sound of clapping.

"And so justice is served. Bravo," Peter said.

"Do I know you?" she asked, pulling out a cloth to wipe the blood from her weapon. She caught the grimace that passed over his face.

"Let me introduce myself: I'm Peter Fleming."

"Well, if you want to hire me for a job, you'll have to get in line. I have to finish this one, first." She stepped carefully over the puddle of blood by the body.

"You're originally from London?" He knew the answer, of course. They had met in the city. He'd been the one to convince her to move with him to America. It looked like someone else had persuaded her to move in this reality.

_Jealous, are we?_

"Thought I got rid of most of the accent by now," she muttered. "Yes," she said, a bit louder. "Tarot's a great way of getting to see the world."

He couldn't believe that she had become an assassin. It was hard to reconcile that thought with what he knew about his wife. The Danielle he remembered had been sweet and innocent… And not only was she an assassin, but a world-class one, at that. Tarot would accept nothing less.

Peter was nearly about to ask her where Jamie was when a horrible thought crossed his mind. If he and Danielle had never met, then that meant…

_Jamie was never born._ He swallowed. True, he had not seen or heard from his daughter in so long. She apparently felt she was better off without him in her life, but for her to be gone? To have ceased to exist—that was unacceptable. He would have to find a way back to his own timeline, even if it meant leaving Danielle behind here.

He had loved her so much, but this wasn't really his Danielle. He didn't know the person before him. He would like to get to know her, but then, he would also like an opportunity to get to know the Cape. Anyway, his Danielle, he was sure, would have understood his choice to return to their daughter. If the positions were reversed, surely she would make the same choice.

"Did Scales send you to check up on me?" she asked, breaking him out of his reverie.

"No, he didn't. I understand I'm intruding—"

"Do you? Because now is not a good time to chat," Justice said. "My mark should be around here, somewhere, and you're ruining the element of surprise. If you like, I can give you my card…"

A gunshot rang out, and Danielle looked down at her chest. She spotted the spreading blood stain just as Peter did, and sank to her knees.

In the doorway behind her stood Conrad Chandler, his gun still raised.

"Danielle! NO!" Peter rushed to the assassin's side, and knelt next to her. In that instant, all the differences he had noticed between the two versions of the woman were forgotten. He was mentally transported back to the night where his toddler had been robbed of her mother.

"Honey, stay with me! Wake up!" He shook her shoulder, but she wouldn't respond. "Don't make me lose you again! No, not again," a sob escaped his throat. He had already been responsible for her death once. Why did he have to relive this?

"How touching," Chandler drawled. "Were you close? You know, you don't see me crying like that over Netta's body. Of course, I never did love Netta, but she will be hard to replace. She was the only one around here I didn't have to drug."

Peter didn't fight Chess as he took control of their body. He picked up Rosethorne's sword, stood up, and faced the Lich.

"You shouldn't have done that," Chess explained as he advanced. "She would've been _fun_ this way. We would have been perfect together. And you took that away from us!"

~PF~

Peter came to himself sometime later. He wasn't in the basement anymore, but apparently sitting on a park bench.

"Peter? I thought it would be best if you didn't see his remains when you woke up," Deveraux said, softly. Chess could get a little carried away at times. In this case, well, no one would be interested in buying that property until some major cleaning was done. And even then, if prospective buyers knew what had transpired there… Yeah, that place was going to be empty awhile.

André sat down next to Fleming and tentatively laid an arm around his shoulders.

"I let her die _again_," Peter whispered. If he hadn't distracted her, she'd still be alive. Hell, if he'd even warned her; how could he have not seen the shooter taking aim?

"No; listen to me. That wasn't your fault. That was the Lich. He's the one responsible for her death, not you."

"The Lich," Peter repeated.

"The one she'd been hired to kill. He was a nasty piece of work. He unleashed a neurotoxin on the crowds at the Founders' Day Parade—"

Fleming shook his head. A memory of Voyt begging him to cancel the parade came back to him. But he'd insisted on going ahead with it.

"Nothing happened at the parade," the engineer pointed out.

"No, well, it wouldn't have in your world. You had the Cape to take on the Lich and save the day."

"What are you saying?"

"Without Chess as his archenemy, there was no reason for the Cape. Palm City doesn't have a guardian superhero," Deveraux replied.

"What happened to the Cape then?"

"You know, I actually don't know what happened to the cape," Deveraux began. "But I know who would! Come on; we'll go pay Max a visit."

"Max?" Peter asked. A moment later, the park vanished. In its place was Trolley Park. For a change, Deveraux hadn't disappeared into the background. He grabbed Peter's hand and tugged him forward, into one of the tents.

**Author's Note: Chapter title again comes from Slow Club's "Christmas TV."**

**I would like to thank Orwell, meridian-rose and IronAmerica for reviewing!**

**Revolting is off the air? Yay! *sings* "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas…" Wait. What do you mean they're bringing it back in March? And when, may I ask, are they bringing back the infinitely superior **_**Cape**_**? **


	4. Chapter 4: Where Have You Been?

_Chapter Four: Where Have You Been?_

"MAX!" Deveraux called once they were inside. "Max! Where are you?"

"Perhaps you should've called first," Peter suggested, pulling his hand free.

"So that he'd know I was coming? Nah, that'd give him a chance to be prepared," Deveraux winked.

"I thought this was a friend of yours."

"He is. What? You don't have friends that find you disturbing?"

Peter thought of him and Chess and decided not to pursue the matter.

"Max! Maybe we should check the trailer…" André trailed off as he heard footsteps approach and turned around.

"Oh, it's you. What are you doing here?" Rollo demanded as he came to a stop. The carnie did not look at all pleased to see the shape shifter.

"And hello to you, too, Rollo. I came by to introduce a friend to Max. Where's he hiding? He's not hung over, is he? I thought he'd found a way to put a stop to that with—"

"So you haven't heard. That figures. Maybe if you'd bothered to come sooner, he would still be here."

"Rollo, what are you talking about?" André asked.

"Deveraux, Max is dead."

"No," he shook his head, first slowly and then vehemently. "No, he can't be dead."

"Turns out, he can; not all of us are immortal," Rollo answered gruffly.

Deveraux's eyes stung. He knew there would be a lot of changes if he erased his descendant's existence, but he hadn't expected anything like this. Peter didn't even have a clue who Max was, how could he be the deciding factor in whether he lived or died?

"Come on," Rollo grunted. "I think we still have some of Max's wine around somewhere."

~PF~

"What happened?" Deveraux croaked a short while later, after they were seated.

"Kozmo happened," the new leader of the Carnival of Crime replied.

"What's Kozmo?" Peter interjected.

Deveraux blew his nose in a handkerchief before enlightening him.

"Not 'what,' he's a 'who.' You know that cape that…"

"You told him about the cape?" Rollo interrupted.

"Not exactly; anyway, it had belonged to my friend Max. Years ago, he called himself 'Kozmo the Unkillable.' It was sort of a title handed down from one person to another. Kozmo was sort of…well, I suppose something like what you would be if you wore the cape, really."

_What? What does that even mean? Why would I wear…? Although, I suppose it could do considerable damage… Do you think it comes in red?_

It was then Peter decided they'd had quite enough to drink and put down the glass.

"Only Max decided he didn't want to be like that and he retired the mantle," Deveraux turned to the shorter man. "I thought that was the end of Kozmo."

"It was, until Gregor Molotov broke out of prison," Rollo explained. "You remember Gregor? He never forgave Max for refusing to give him the cape. Turned out he also blamed Max for 'letting him go to prison.'"

"So he came here to take the cape from him by force," Deveraux realized.

"And then drowned him," Rollo added.

Deveraux squeezed his eyes shut and spoke, mostly to himself.

"The Cape must have saved him from Gregor the first time. But without the Cape, there was no one to rescue him."

Rollo looked perplexed.

"Are you feeling alright? Look, man, I'm not very good at this. You could talk to Raia."

"Is she alright? Was anyone else in the Carnival…?"

"No one else was killed," the carnie informed him. "Dice joined Kozmo, though, the little traitor."

"Did you say Dice? Dice, as in Tracey Jarrod?" Fleming asked, remembering his would-be assassin.

"You know her?" Rollo seemed surprised for a moment. "You've been to one of the shows, then. Her father left the savant with the carnival when she was still pretty young. With a talent like that for fortune telling and a serious inability to interact with the world—he didn't know what else to do with her."

_Huh; do you suppose Carnival sideshow is a step up from ARK Corporation experiment? _Chess asked. Peter ignored him, as Rollo was still speaking.

"Gregor decided he had to have her as an asset, even though he's not too bad at reading fortunes, himself. Which, I guess I can understand that. She must be great at warning him about potential assassination attempts long before they happen. Raia felt betrayed when she left, though. I guess we all did. Siding with Max's killer, after everything he'd done for her, was pretty low."

"Maybe she was afraid of Molotov?" Deveraux suggested.

Peter scoffed. If Dice hadn't been afraid of him, he couldn't imagine her being afraid of anyone.

"More likely she was intrigued by the fact he's a contortionist…"

_Is that what it takes to get into her pants? No wonder she wasn't interested in you._

"…I'm surprised you didn't hear about Kozmo terrorizing the city," Rollo concluded, looking towards Deveraux. "But then, you haven't been _around_."

"Leave him alone," Peter interrupted. "Can't you see he's grieving?"

_Standing up for him? Sympathetic all of a sudden, Peter?_

Deveraux had comforted him earlier in the evening, after what had happened to Danielle. Fleming wasn't inhuman.

"And I'm not?" Rollo asked. "Where the hell were you, Deveraux? If you'd been here, you could've prevented it!"

"Evidently, he wasn't meant to be the one to swoop in and save the day. André," Peter turned to his lover. "I get that this isn't the best time, but you didn't answer my question."

"You asked what happened to the cape. Now you know," Deveraux sniffed.

"I was asking about the man calling himself the Cape and you know it."

"There isn't one; I explained that already. Go away." He poured himself some of Max's wine and started drinking it.

"No, but I get the feeling you know who was under the mask. And obviously it wasn't him," Peter nodded towards Rollo, who, aside from not having any hair, was the wrong height to be the vigilante.

"What makes you think I do? I didn't even know that Max was gone."

It had occurred to him that, all competition aside, Max was probably his best friend. Why _hadn't_ he spent more time with him? How many people did he know who knew he'd been around for centuries? And who else would carry on the tradition with him? Max hadn't had any children; he'd been the last member of his family. With Malini gone, the contest was over.

"But you've been rather knowledgeable regarding the whereabouts of people that were in my life. And this whole experience was supposed to be about me."

_About you not being able to keep your mouth shut, you mean._

"Alright, so what if I do know about him? Weren't you about to let me grieve in peace?"

Peter mentally counted to ten. He refrained from pointing out that if the magician just snapped his fingers and brought them back home, there would be nothing for him to grieve about. André obviously wasn't thinking logically at the moment.

"And I will, but first you have to bring me to him," he said at last.

"FINE!" Deveraux set down the glass, letting wine slop over the edges. He threw up his hands. "Fine," he repeated. "Let's go!"

There was a brief moment in which Chess worried about the advisability of teleporting while under the influence before the immortal stood up and grabbed onto his descendant. Together they vanished from Trolley Park.

~PF~

Deveraux released his arm when they were in a brightly-lit corridor.

"He's in there," he pointed towards a closed door. "If you need me, I'll be in the cemetery, visiting my friend's grave," he added, before disappearing, leaving Fleming alone.

Peter looked around. He had a sinking feeling. This was a hospital, though he couldn't tell what wing he was in. Perhaps the vigilante was there for something minor. Perhaps he wasn't a patient, just visiting someone…

_Yeah, right_. _Quit stalling._

Peter took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the name printed underneath the room number beside the door. Then his eyes bugged out. The sign said: VINCENT FARADAY.

Vince Faraday was the Cape?

**Author's Note: What? Don't look at me like that; I changed the genre.**

**I finished reading "Cold Days." Naturally, I think it could've used more of a certain Spirit of Air and Intellect. *sighs* **

**Thanks to IronAmerica, Orwell, and meridian-rose for reviewing!**

**Happy upcoming birthday to IronAmerica!**


	5. Chapter 5: It's Brutal

_Chapter Five: It's Brutal_

How could Faraday be the Cape? He had watched as the man was blown up on television.

_No, you watched as there was an explosion at the train yard_, Chess corrected him._ There was never proof that Faraday was inside the explosion._

But he had _seen _Faraday there just before… _Ugh_, this was frustrating! If Faraday hadn't been killed that day, then he had allowed everyone to believe he was dead all this time. Accused of being Chess, he had gone into hiding to protect himself—

_More likely he did it to protect his family, Peter. We threatened to kill them right before telling him to run. _

Oh, 'we' did?

…_Alright, _I_ threatened to kill them to get to him. If he was dead, they were safe._

Okay, his wife and son were safe, but Faraday wasn't with them. That explained everything—how the Cape knew he was Chess, why the vigilante hated him so much he would always deny what there was between them. He had caused Faraday to sacrifice everything. Surely the man was better off in a world in which he hadn't been born…

_If you're so sure of that Peter, why haven't you opened the door, yet?_

Steeling himself, Fleming pushed the door of the room open and stepped inside. He noticed that the patient wasn't alone. Faraday's son was curled up in a chair by the window, fast asleep. His wife, that attorney, was sitting in another chair by her husband's bed. She turned towards Peter and he saw that she had been crying.

Vincent himself was lying in the bed, unconscious. He could have been in a coma for all Peter knew.

_Idiot, if he was in a coma, he'd be hooked up to more machinery._

"I'm sorry, do I know you? I guess I should be asking: How do you know my husband?" Dana asked.

"My name is Peter Fleming. I knew him from work," Peter replied.

"You're with the PCPD? I haven't seen you around before."

"My apologies; I would have visited him sooner, but I only just found out he was here."

"I don't understand. I thought all of his friends from work knew—"

"Well, the thing is, we hadn't spoken face to face in quite a while. Something always seemed to get in the way—"

_Like a mask._

"—and I'm afraid I've fallen alarmingly behind on current events," he answered smoothly. "Mrs. Faraday, how is he? What happened to him?"

"You've at least heard about the attack on the Founders' Day parade?" Dana asked, once she had figured out how to begin.

Fleming felt slightly queasy.

"I did hear that someone calling himself the Lich attacked the parade-goers," he responded. He did not like where this was going, especially as it was impossible to kill the Lich a second time.

"Vince was on duty that day. He was in charge of the security detail for the parade. He," her voice faltered. "He got a full dose of the gas. The doctors said they hadn't seen this formula before, that there was no cure for it. It's some sort of neurotoxin.

"They said seventy percent of the victims died. Vince didn't but… _Sometimes I think they were the lucky ones._" The last came out in a whisper, showing her embarrassment about confiding the thought to anyone. Dana raised a hand to her face to wipe away the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I know that sounds horrible, but he's not himself anymore. When he's awake, it's like he doesn't see us, doesn't recognize us. Most of the time he doesn't speak, when he does it's just gibberish. His mind is gone. My husband is gone!"

Fleming, after a slight hesitation, went forward and enveloped the grief-stricken woman in his arms to comfort her. When she had regained some sense of composure, she pulled away.

"Thanks. I'm sorry; I don't know why I'm unloading all of this on you. I don't even know you. You shouldn't have to deal with all this…"

"It's alright. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to," Peter assured her. "You shouldn't keep things bottled up."

"That may be, but I can't just break down in front of Trip. It's not fair to him," she continued, "that he has to see his father this way. I usually don't take him with me, but…Tomorrow's Christmas. I didn't want to leave him home alone.

"And he said he wanted to come, to see his dad, but… I probably should have known better. It would be better for him to remember his father the way he used to be, so full of life, always reading those comic books to him. They were inseparable. You should have seen when we celebrated Trip's tenth birthday…" She cleared her throat and went back to exploring why she was pouring herself out to this man.

"Marty's—do you know Marty?" she paused just long enough for him to nod before she continued. "He's always busy, I don't know, trying to keep the city from falling to pieces, as if it hasn't already. Or so he claims, but I don't trust that Raoul guy I've seen him with. Which basically leaves Travis—my boss—and I don't need to have a nervous breakdown in front of him."

"Don't you have any friends from work to confide in?" Fleming asked.

"Not really. I started working at the public defenders' office after Vince… The disability benefits weren't enough to support us, so I had to go back to work. I haven't felt up to doing much socializing, you know? So I haven't gotten to know anyone that well, although Kia seems nice and—I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"Perhaps a little," Peter answered her.

"Vince would have tried to shut me up by now. I should go, let you have some time alone with him. I know it must be quite a shock to see him like this for the first time and my babbling is not going to help you…come to terms with this."

_Nothing is going to help you come to terms with this_, Chess remarked.

"Please, I already feel as though I'm intruding. I wouldn't want to chase you away," Peter said aloud.

"Don't worry about it. I have to get Trip home anyway. His bed's more comfortable than that chair."

"Shall I give you a hand?"

"No, I've got it. Trip," Dana bent over her son and shook his shoulder.

"Mom?" he blinked up at her sleepily.

"Come on; time to go."

"Okay," he let his mother pull him out of the chair and towards the door. "Goodnight, Dad," he called back to his father's sleeping form.

After the two had left, Peter approached Faraday's side.

"Hello, Vince." He watched the man's chest rise and fall, proof that he was still breathing, small comfort that it was. Seeing his opponent reduced to this…

"You were supposed to be better off without me," Peter muttered, "even if the rest of the city was going to ruin. You should be at home with your family, living a full life. One of us should get to be happy.

"This is too much. Jamie's gone, Danielle, you… I can't lose you, too."

For the second time that evening, he ceded control over to Chess.

The villain spared Faraday one lingering look before storming out of the room and, shortly, the hospital. It was time to do what he should have done from the get-go.

~PF~

Chess left the car he'd stolen at the cemetery gate and continued on foot. He found Deveraux kneeling by the headstone of Max Malini.

"Peter?" Deveraux asked.

"Guess again," Chess held the gun he'd acquired on the way to the shape shifter's temple.

"Peter, I thought I told you, I'm immortal."

"It would be fascinating to see how that immortality stands up to a bullet in the brain. You're going to take me back home, _now_," Chess snarled.

Deveraux sniffled something that sounded rather like "Max."

"Why am I surrounded by idiots? If you take us back, your friend Max will be alive, will he not?"

Deveraux brightened instantly.

~PF~

Peter came back to awareness as the white light began to fade from his vision. He was in the penthouse at ARK Tower. He was home.

The computer screen was still up, displaying Orwell's blog. Fleming never thought he'd be happy to see that.

The headache that he'd had earlier had returned in full force. He was somewhat less pleased about that, but he could handle it.

"Thank you," Peter said to Deveraux. "If you'd like to stay, I think I'll be better company than I was before."

**Author's Note: Thanks to IronAmerica, Orwell and meridian-rose for reviewing! **

**There will be an epilogue for the fic. Stay tuned.**


	6. Epilogue: Out of This Mistletoe

_Epilogue: Out of This Mistletoe_

Deveraux turned to his descendant, satisfied that he had learned a lesson from the experience.

"I believe you, Peter, but there's someplace else I have to be."

"I see. You'd rather be with Max," Peter surmised; he tried to hide his disappointment.

"After what we just went through, I think you can understand my need to see with my own eyes that he's okay. Besides, I think there's someone else you'd rather be with, too."

"Be that as it may—"

Deveraux interrupted him with a kiss to the forehead.

"I'll give you a rain check, alright? Happy Christmas, Peter!"

And then he was gone, teleporting out of the penthouse as he had all over the city during the evening. But, Peter noted, he had not left the suite the way he had found it. The home was now filled with Christmas decorations, including a tree in the living room.

~PF~

Meanwhile, in a restaurant in downtown Palm City, Dana Faraday was enjoying a rare night out with a new friend. Orwell, the mysterious blogger who worked with her son's friend, the Cape, had suggested they celebrate Christmas Eve together.

Trip was quite happy to have a sleepover at Gerry's place.

And so Jamie Fleming and Dana were getting buzzed and able to forget their respective troubles (and trust issues) for a few hours, at least.

~PF~

In Trolley Park, Max Malini heard the door of his trailer open and close. He turned around, half-expecting to see Rollo or Vince and to his surprise saw…

"Deveraux," Max's eyes went wide. "I didn't expect to see you. What brings you here?"

"Max," Deveraux grinned as he hugged the other man. "I came because I missed you, silly. Got any wine?"

Max smiled.

~PF~

The Cape pushed open one of the windows to the penthouse of ARK Tower and slipped inside as quietly as he could. He didn't hear any noises within, so perhaps his entrance had gone unnoticed—

A light switch was flipped to the 'on' position.

"Hello, Cape."

—Then again, maybe not. He suppressed a sigh.

"Can I help you with something?" Fleming continued.

Vince scowled. He hadn't really thought this through. It was just that everyone else was busy: His partner had taken his wife for a girls' night of all things, Trip was staying with a neighbor, Max had a friend in from out of town that he wanted to get reacquainted with, Ruvi was probably knocking over a store (Vince didn't really want to know)… He'd had the vague notion that he could break into ARK Tower and find new dirt on his archenemy, so that his evening could be productive, if nothing else.

Of course, breaking and entering would be easier if said archenemy was asleep in bed, but that was just the way Vince's luck worked.

"Forget it," the vigilante rasped. "I was just leaving."

"Wait," Peter commanded him. He approached the masked man and, once in his personal space, pointed up to the ceiling above them. "Mistletoe," he grinned.

The blue eyes behind the mask went wide.

"Fleming, you can't really think that we're going to—"

Peter interrupted his sentence by shoving his tongue into Faraday's mouth. A moan escaped the former cop when they finally parted.

"Fleming, are you drunk?" Vince asked, regaining use of his faculties.

"Not anymore," the billionaire replied, "you?"

"Unfortunately, no," if he was drunk, at least he'd have had an excuse for kissing back. "If you'll forgive me, I have to go forget this ever happened."

Fleming grabbed the younger man's arm tight.

"Now I wouldn't be able to forgive you for _that_. If it's just a matter of requiring alcohol, I believe I have plenty here. You're staying."

"You're insane."

_No, we're __not_, Chess huffed.

"That's neither here nor there," Peter said aloud, as he steered his adversary towards his bar.

"_Fleming_!" the Cape hissed.

"I know that you think this is wrong," Peter acknowledged. "And maybe it is, but right now, I don't care. It's Christmas Eve and there's absolutely no reason for either of us to spend it alone. You can go back to hating me in the morning, _Faraday_."

Vince gaped at him. He couldn't possibly know who he was!

"How?" he croaked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Let's just say I found out from a friend of a friend. It doesn't matter. I know you blame me for a lot of the wrongs in the city, and in your life—"

"You destroyed my life!" Faraday insisted, though with less heat than usual. Shrugging, he accepted a shot glass from Fleming and downed the contents.

"Maybe it would have been destroyed anyway," the billionaire threw in. "Perhaps an even worse fate would have befallen you. At any rate, I would like us to start over. And this time, I promise not to go after your wife and son."

"You swear?"

"I swear," he affirmed, refilling the Cape's glass. "So, will you stay?"

"…I guess I'm too drunk to jump out the window now, anyway…"

_Only the Cape_, Chess observed, _would have to be sober to jump out of a penthouse window_. _Great taste you have, Peter_.

Fleming ignored the sarcasm. Finally, after all that had happened, he felt content.*

THE END

***But of course he wasn't 100% content, as Peter still didn't know where Jamie was. Sorry.**

**Author's Note: Chapter title once again from "Christmas TV." **

**Thanks to IronAmerica, phnxgrl, and meridian-rose for reviewing! And again thanks to those who added the story to their list of favorites/alerts!**

**Sorry if the epilogue was too cliché/fluffy/short. Also, wow, can't believe alcohol was in every scene here. Oops. At least the kids weren't drinking.**

**Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to all!**


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